


well, if it matters, here's some flowers

by orphan_account



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Living Together, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Secret Santa, merry christmas winnie!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The bathroom door banged open--Brock had stopped locking it, because there simply wasn't any point--and Anthony shouted, "Brock!"Brock scrubbed his face with his hands. Anthony was a haze of blue shirt through the steam. "What is it?""The online guides recommend a pet name like 'My Dearest' or 'My Beloved,' but that sounds stupid as shit."Brock sighed into the shower steam, and then thought that anyone who knew Anthony, or even talked to him for more than two minutes, might find it a bit distressing. "I'd be a bit creeped out, yeah. I mean, do they know you at all?""You would? Great." And Anthony slammed the door shut again.[title from Livin' On Love by AJR]
Relationships: Anthony | BigJigglyPanda/Brock Barrus | Moo Snuckel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	well, if it matters, here's some flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beesucculent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beesucculent/gifts).



> merry christmas, winnie! I love you and I hope you're having a wonderful boxing day. I'm so so sorry that this is late, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. your request was a personal letters au, and I chose moothony, the softest ship. merry christmas!

"Brock."

"Mmm?" Brock paused in his shaving ritual. It was typically a calming process, but Anthony was hovering in the door, meeting his eyes uncertainly in the mirror. "What?"

"You've written love letters," Anthony asserted.

"Not since middle school," said Brock. "But yes." Anthony seemed uncomfortable, but not in a way that telegraphed any sudden movements or yelling, so Brock drew another stripe through the foam. Anthony, in the mirror, stood in the doorway with a somewhat thoughtful air, chewing on his thumbnail.

Finally, Anthony came up with, "I need your help with something, I think."

Brock ran his fingertips over his now-smooth jaw. "On what?"

"A love letter."

Brock tapped his razor against the edge of the sink and rinsed it. "This for a Youtube video?"

"No."

Brock met Anthony's eyes in the mirror. Anthony looked somewhat bemused. "It's not for a video?" Anthony gave Brock the look that meant _You heard me perfectly well the first time_.

Brock deposited his razor in its cup. "So this is for you, then. You. . . want me to help you write a love letter."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Brock."

"If you want my help, you’d best be nice," Brock warned. He splashed some water on his face. "Why me?"

"You've done this before," Anthony pointed out. "And it's not as if there's anyone else I can ask."

Brock wiped his face with a towel and tried to picture Anthony asking Tyler or, God help them all, Nogla to help him compose a love letter. "All right," he allowed. "It’s a bit. . . well, bit middle school, though, isn't it? A love letter."

Anthony stood up straight, shoulders back. "If you don't want to help--"

"No," Brock said, hastily. He hung the towel back up. "I'll help. Just--give me a moment, alright? I want to at least get out of my pyjamas.”

* * *

Brock was aware that Anthony was, in fact, a very attractive man. Not only in looks, perhaps--oh, yes, there were the round cheekbones, the bright eyes, the dark curly hair, blah blah blah--but Anthony wasn't necessarily physically attractive in a conventional way, was he? What made him so magnetic was the way in which he held himself and the way he looked at you, like he could see through you and read each one of your secrets out loud to the world, the way Brock never had to say when he was struggling because Anthony was already there with a helping hand, the way he gave affection easily and freely. Maybe the eyes or the smile compelled the first glance, but his voice, his golden charismatic laugh, was what compelled the second one.

But Brock had had enough of lost causes in his life. Anthony had told him no, that very first dinner together, and Brock hadn't even been properly chatting him up at the time. So Brock kept it to himself, didn't look at Anthony too hard or too long, smiled sweetly with baristas and grocery cashiers, and took comfort in the knowledge that, well, at least it wasn't because he was too old, too poor, too ugly, or had a poor personality. Anthony simply wasn't interested in anyone. And if Brock couldn't have him, at least Anthony wasn't going anywhere with anyone else.

It looked like he'd been wrong about that, but there was nothing for it now.

* * *

"All right." Brock sat himself at the kitchen table with toast and a mug of hot coffee and probably too much sugar. Across from him, Anthony tapped his pen against a pad of paper. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." _Tap tap tap_. "I’ve never done this before, dude, like, I've looked online, but they’re all the same. I want it to feel… real, I guess."

"Okay.” Brock sipped his coffee. It'd been a long time since he'd written a love letter. He was pretty sure the ones he'd written in the past were all stupid and long since relegated to rubbish piles. He wondered if he'd do any better now. "Well, I don't really know what to tell you. They're pretty straightforward, I feel like. You just tell them why you love them."

Anthony made a frustrated noise. "But how? I can’t just do fuckin’… bullet points," he finished in a sulky mutter.

Brock hid his smile in his mug; Anthony could be surprisingly sensitive to any perceived mockery. "Well, you can, if you think the other person will like it."

Anthony brightened. "So I should just make the letter whatever the other person will like."

"Well. . . yes," Brock said. Good grief. Whoever this person was, he hoped they were patient. "If you think they'd like a poem, then write a poem. If you think they'd like a numbered list, then write a numbered list."

"I see." Anthony scribbled this down on his pad. Brock took a bite of his toast and reflected that if he were going to write a love letter to Anthony, he'd probably write a sappy poem, but hide it in some kind of code. Anthony might get a kick out of that.

Of course, he'd never write a love letter to Anthony.

"What else?" Anthony demanded.

Brock made sure his bite of toast was well-chewed before swallowing it. "Erm. Well. Be loving. Sentimental." _Obviously,_ he didn't add, because some things were not always obvious to Anthony. "Tell them why you love them, how much you think about them. The moment you fell in love with them, if you remember it. It helps sometimes if you're a bit down on yourself, talk about how you're not worthy, that sort of thing. Flatter the other person." He caught a glimpse of Anthony's curled lip and smiled into his cup again. "Use nice paper. And your best handwriting, of course."

"Is that all?" Anthony asked, once he'd written it all down.

"I dunno. Like I said, it's been a long time." Brock took another bite of his toast, chewed, swallowed. "Do you want me to read over your letter? That'd probably be easier."

"No." Anthony sounded revolted by the idea.

"All right, all right." He should have known better; Anthony was intensely private in some bizarre instances. "Well, let me know if you have any more questions." He picked up his plate of crumbs, took it to the sink, and tried not to think about who this letter was for.

* * *

The bathroom door banged open--Brock had stopped locking it, because there simply wasn't any point--and Anthony shouted, "Brock!"

Brock scrubbed his face with his hands. Anthony was a haze of blue shirt through the steam. "What is it?"

"The online guides recommend a pet name like 'My Dearest' or 'My Beloved,' but that sounds stupid as shit."

Brock sighed into the shower steam, and then thought that anyone who knew Anthony, or even talked to him for more than two minutes, might find it a bit distressing. "I'd be a bit creeped out, yeah. I mean, do they know you at all?"

"You would? Great." And Anthony slammed the door shut again.

* * *

_Not sure how I’m supposed to act unworthy, I’m fucking great_

Brock rolled his eyes. _I’m trying to get work done_ , he typed and sent. Then, upon reflection, he sent a second message: _Just say nice things about them._

Good god. Brock was the one who didn't deserve this.

* * *

Brock woke with a gasp, heart hammering, generally panicky. "Hey," came Anthony's apologetic voice, and Brock went limp. Anthony's presence was a weight at the edge of the bed, bent over Brock; Brock's bedroom door was open, letting in a shaft of dim light.

"Jesus," Brock said. "I told you not to do that. One of these days I'm going to--"

"How can I be certain they’ll like the letter?"

Brock propped himself up on his elbows and stared in Anthony's general direction, letting his eyes adjust. Anthony was more wild-haired than usual, his shirt collar askew. His jaw was very tense.

"There's no magic formula." At Anthony's scowl, he amended, "Or scientific formula, whatever. All you can do is be sincere."

Anthony was silent. He glanced at his bedside table. Christ, it was three-thirty in the morning.

"Has anyone ever written you a love letter?" Anthony asked, suddenly.

Brock blinked. "One or two." He smiled fondly at the memory. Kids probably didn't do that sort of thing anymore. Probably they texted one another or wrote in each other's Facebooks, or something. For someone who depended on the Internet, he still felt out of the loop a lot of the time. "I don't know that you'd call them proper love letters. More like love notes. I like you, do you like me, that sort of thing."

Anthony peered searchingly at Brock's face. "Did you like them? The notes."

"Everyone likes getting love letters." Brock laid back down. "Everyone likes knowing that they're loved. It's flattering." He drew the covers back up. "I'm going back to sleep now. Don't wake me unless it's a matter of life or death."

He closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he felt Anthony get up off the bed, and then his bedroom door shut behind him.

* * *

When Brock came home from his errands the next day, Anthony was shut up in his room recording, and Brock may have been wrong, but he felt like Anthony was laughing an awful lot more than usual. He stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, leaning against the wall and simply listening. Was this what it was like, then, Anthony in love?

He closed his eyes and wondered who it was. He thought he knew everyone in Anthony's life, although it was true he didn't accompany Anthony in every game, or to every event. Was this something he'd failed to notice, or had Anthony been extraordinarily secretive? Was Anthony even gay? It was difficult to say; Anthony didn't play by any rules.

Anthony yelled suddenly. Brock opened his eyes and remembered to finish climbing the stairs. Well, whoever they were, they were a lucky bastard, and if they ever broke Anthony's heart, Brock would throttle them with his bare hands.

* * *

The next morning, Brock came downstairs to find an envelope propped against the kettle. The front of it said simply _Brock Barrus_ in dark blue ink, in what Brock recognized as Anthony's handwriting.

He stopped breathing.

He simply held the envelope in his hand for long moments. It was pale lilac in colour and square in shape, with what felt like cardstock inside, stiff and heavy. Finally, with quick, mechanical movements, he filled the kettle, set it to boil, and sat down at the table to open the letter.

It said, on expensive cream-coloured cardstock,

_Brock,_

_I wanted to write this letter to tell you that I think I’m in love with you. I'm not sure, because I’ve never been in love before, and it’s not exactly a quantifiable feeling. However, I’m particularly fond of your smiles, even when you are not smiling at me; your food in the fridge, even when it’s of the kind I can’t eat; and your sweaters, even when they’re the extremely unflattering kind that are chunky and itchy. It’s a terrible amount of affection._

_It began the moment I saw you and realized that you'd come to PAX West just to see me. No one had ever done that for me before. Matters escalated when you left, and I realized how desperate I was to stay with you, not just hear you through Discord._

_You have bettered my life in a thousand ways since you appeared. You stop me from putting too many holes in the walls and being too cruel. You buy milk and beans. You vacuum and do the washing-up. You remind me that not everyone in the world is utterly boring and uninteresting. You are an audience for my rambling rants when I need to blow off steam. You tell me that I am lovely, and you believe that I am capable of being a hero, even though I am definitely, definitely not, and I really, really don’t want to disappoint you._

_I would like to buy you new ugly sweaters. I would like to record with you, and travel to every convention with you, and I would even like to kiss you. And when I move out of this house, or change career paths, or even when I go to get groceries this week, I’d like for you to be with me._

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Anthony_

Anthony set a mug of steaming coffee down in front of him. Brock hadn't even noticed the kettle's beep.

"Do you like it?" Anthony took the seat across from Brock, much as he had a week ago, when he'd taken notes on how to write a love letter. He looked very composed for someone who'd just confessed his feelings via expensive stationery, although his fingers were restless.

Brock swallowed and put down the letter. "Everyone likes love letters."

"Yes, but." Anthony took a quick swallow of his own tea, surely burning himself in the process. "What about this one?"

"I like it," said Brock. "I like it very much." And then, "Come over here, you--you--I can't believe--" He all but dragged Anthony over the table to kiss him, and finally they both shuffled to the side in order to avoid upsetting any chairs or cups of tea. Anthony was an awkward, clumsy kisser, who obviously had no idea what to do with his hands, but Brock just kept kissing and kissing him anyway, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other bending Anthony's head towards him. When he finally stopped, it was to say, "Why didn't you say something?"

"I did," said Anthony, dazed and baffled, with his hair even more ruffled than usual; it was a good look on him. "I wrote you a letter and everything."

"That wasn't--" Brock thudded his forehead against Anthony's collarbone and fought to keep down a hysterical giggle. "People don't normally ask the object of affection for advice on their own love letter."

"Well, there wasn't anyone else to ask." Anthony, at least, seemed to know how to hug; his arms were very comfortable around Brock's shoulders. "And why not? Surely the object of affection would know what they like."

"Christ," said Brock. "I thought you were writing that letter for someone else."

Anthony sounded genuinely curious. "But who else would there be?"

Brock couldn't resist giggling that time, and after a moment, Anthony joined him.


End file.
